


Sacrifice

by Crystia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 08 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:52:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystia/pseuds/Crystia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel searches for a way to reopen the gates of Heaven. </p><p>Dean wouldn't like the payment, if he knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING** : This story includes (ritualistic) suicidal intent, and near success. If that's not what you were expecting, give this a miss!
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Castiel knew he could not stay long, of course: the church was but a small respite from his roaming, after Dean had dismissed him. A warm place, gently lit with candles in the night. He frowned a little when he realized that someone was watching him, an angel, standing in the aisle. From the pews he rose to his feet, and let his sword slip into his human hands.

The angel came forward and stood a few paces away, accusatory and aggrieved. Her voice echoed throughout the empty sanctuary, holding the same wrath as the angels before her; Castiel had stopped listening to any of them long ago. He bowed his head in apology and recited his grief, yet with no real hope that she would listen, knowing the angels cared little for his regrets when they had already fallen to earth. The deed was done. 

When she attacked, he defeated her through trickery. Her blood oozed down the aisle by the end. The only reassurance he could offer was when he leaned over her corpse and said, “I am sorry, but I cannot return to Heaven yet.”

He gave her a hunter’s funeral and burned her bones. There were two lives to mourn, the vessel and the angel, and he knew that neither would care that he did. Hours later he returned to the church, and when the blood was gone and he no longer felt quite so dizzy with guilt, he offered his prayers. He knelt for hours, until the sun rose and spilled through the stained glass, painting him soft colors of yellow and maroon. His knees ached and his shoulders were painfully stiff, and red seeped through his shirt where she had stabbed him: an inadequate penance, until he could properly atone. 

Castiel kept his eyes closed even as other churchgoers arrived, murmuring respectfully in the background, their voices barely audible over their footsteps. He bowed his head further, clenching his eyes shut, his breathing uneven with unspeakable shame for fighting his sister on the human’s holy ground. 

“If you are listening, Father,” he finished his prayer tightly, his voice hoarse with anger and despair. “I’m going to try one last time to—not to put right, but—to curb the repercussions. I know it’s too much to expect you to do the same.” 

He stood at that with a graceless stumble, starting towards the door. One final conversation with an absent father on behalf of the humans and angels he had killed, and one last accusation, for all that he knew his prayers went unheard. 

He began searching without rest. The library, the church’s storeroom, he tried any ritual that did not seem like a potential trap. First he performed the most basic spells, the ones without obscure ingredients or significant sacrifices. Then he moved onto the darker rites, with bloodletting and pain; he only avoided witchcraft that might release a greater evil, or would damage him so badly he could try nothing else. The most promising ritual required an angel’s tears, and Castiel seeked out one of his former brothers, pleading for assistance and offering a possible fix. The angel helped, but when the spell failed, his brother grew furious once more and attacked. Castiel killed him and mourned.

He returned to the church again afterwards, not to pray but to think. He wasn’t surprised by his failure. Metatron, after all, had been God’s scribe, and if he did not want angels to return to Heaven, he would not have left written instruction. Pagans and demons might remember, but none wanted the angels to reclaim their full power, nor had they any love for Castiel himself. Entirely the opposite. He wondered if Dean was having any luck, and if he would come if Castiel requested help. Perhaps if Castiel said he had information, since the Winchesters worked for the greater good. They would tolerate him, no matter how much Dean wanted to cut ties, because protecting people was more important than past betrayals. As long as Castiel remained useful they would stay. 

In the end it didn’t matter. Castiel had no hope or suggestion to offer, and even if he did, he would not endanger them with his selfish desire for company.

He went out on the steps of the church, surprised to find snowflakes whirling by, fluttering into his hair. Children ran by, shrieking as they threw clumps of snow and mud at each other, delighted by the first snowfall. He glanced straight up, and he watched curiously at the way snowflakes appeared out of nowhere a few meters above his gaze, an intriguing illusion. This view of the world was simple, grey clouds and chaotic spots of white. They fell on his face and he wondered if they formed freckles to match the ones scattered across Dean’s nose. 

Dean called him then, as if summoned by his thoughts, and Castiel’s fingers felt numb in the cold air as he held the cell phone to his ear. Merry Christmas, Dean told him after several moments silence, although why the holiday merited a call to him he was rather unsure. He listened quietly and gave short answers, content enough to listen to the man ramble. He was also uncertain what he could say without testing Dean’s patience, although in the end, he grew wary despite Castiel’s efforts.

“Look, Cas,” Dean started again after yet another pause, frustration leaking into his voice, this time making it clear that Castiel had displeased him. Castiel closed his eyes in resignation, having proved yet again that he could not please Dean, not after what he did, whether he remained silent or verbose.

He dismissed himself after that, claiming he needed to attend to something vague, wanting to leave before he made the situation worse. He proceeded to hang up, moving quickly as soon as he finished his hasty excuse, and he heard a sharp “wait”, but by then it was too late. He watched the screen for a while, mindless of the cold, to see if Dean would call back; surely he would, if it was important.

He didn’t call back. Staring at the darkened screen, he knew that Dean had returned to Sam, or whoever else pleased him more than Castiel. It was a good thing, he knew, since Dean deserved friends and family, but Castiel felt more alone now than after he had fought any number of his brothers.

It was time to try his last option, then: he didn’t know if he would have the will for it later, when even now he doubted his success. 

“I’m not ready,” Castiel spoke to the clouds. “But I will try.”

He ended up finding a job a few blocks away at Bangkok Cafe, not because of any real competence, but because the owner seemed to find it endlessly amusing that a white man could speak fluent Thai despite claiming he had never even visited Thailand. Castiel didn’t mind her teasing, as the owner let him take whatever food remained after they finished, and so his life fell into a familiar pattern: he worked at the restaurant during the day, shamelessly accepting its leftovers, and he returned to the church each night. He maintained an unspoken agreement with the kindly verger, who pretended not to notice Castiel asleep in the corner, inconspicuously resting for a few hours before praying in the morning. 

It might have been pity. He looked concerned every time Castiel staggered from the pews after his prayers, temporarily weakened, his devotion not to God but to the hope that he might still fix his mistakes. The prayers were a means to the end.

To avoid the sympathetic priest, Castiel always ate in the Bangkok Cafe’s side alley, not wanting to disrespect the church—at least, no more, not after he had already killed an angel there—and his only other acquaintance was the stray cat who had stolen a container of shrimp paste that he’d dropped on his first day. He started feeding her quite frequently, as she was injured and unable to hunt properly. One of her hind legs hung crookedly, as though it had been broken and had never healed over quite right, stripping her of her power. 

He felt useful when she took the food he offered, although no less lonely, especially since she avoided his touch. The only time he tried to pet her she hissed and scratched his hand, remaining out of sight for several days after that. He left food on the back steps for her anyway, until nearly a week later, when she finally started eating in front of him again.

“I used to serve as a warrior of God,” he told her while she chewed on some scraps of meat. “Now I serve you fish sauce.”

It was surprisingly reassuring, having a creature rely on him after months of leeching off of the charity of more adept humans. The cat did not like him, but he grew fond of her, her existence giving him a respite from his daily morning prayers.

He was growing weak. Not enough food, too little sleep, too many prayers. He always felt the worst directly after his session at the church, like all of his spirit had been sapped from him, a deserved sacrifice. For a distraction, he threw himself into his work, and he became a source of popular curiosity, reciting Thai poetry and scripture for any customer who asked. He could have requested more food, he supposed, since his employer seemed fond of him, but that felt too ungrateful when he already fed the cat as well as himself. 

Eventually the cafe owner caught him in the back alley anyway, catching a glimpse of the cat while taking out the trash, but had left him alone after his nonsensical explanation. More food started appearing with the leftovers, though, mostly fish and meat. 

Months passed, and he started thinking frequently of Dean, checking his phone often but never calling. With conscious effort, he managed not to check every few minutes; it helped if he left his phone in the back room while he worked. Neither Dean nor Sam called, although he tried to view this optimistically, because the silence meant that they were well: or else they were not, but they had someone more reliable to depend on than Castiel. 

When Dean finally called, he missed it. He retreated to the coat room at the end of his shift, swallowing a piece of extra beef, and saw an unanswered voicemail. Dean had called only fifteen minutes ago, and now Castiel hovered in the doorway, uncertain. He wanted to call back, but at the same time the thought terrified him. Part of him hoped that Dean would hear Castiel’s crippling exhaustion in his voice, to reassure him that he was doing the right thing this time, but another part of him shied away from the attention completely. It had been so long since they had spoken he thought he might have forgotten how, and Dean would ask him a question and he would be unable to reply no matter how hard he tried.

He had only just worked up the courage to redial when he received another message, a text this time. Never mind, Dean had written. He no longer required him. 

Castiel stared at the screen for several minutes after that, before turning off the device and walking outside, inhaling deeply and then sitting down on the back step in the alley. He clutched his phone tightly, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees, hiding his face behind the crook of his arms. Unworthy thoughts flickered unbidden across his mind: so they needed him, did they, Dean? Castiel’s fingers clutched each other more tightly, strained. Perhaps they were family, but more the sort of family John Winchester had been, only around when convenient and unavoidable. He was not like Sam, or Bobby.

He lifted his head when he felt something nudge at his ankle, a nose, and then an accompanying whine, his stray cat. She was looking for food, although it was the first time she had ever willingly had contact with him. She flinched away from any attachment he showed, but apparently if she initiated it, friendly interaction was acceptable. He didn’t move at first, but after a moment he offered her the rest of his food, his hands trembling a little as he opened the lid of his takeout box. He would give her everything that he had left to give. The cat left after finishing her meal.

He sat there and cried for the first time since he had fallen, finally allowing himself to recall how Dean would laugh at the simplicity of Castiel’s uncomprehending frown, or how Dean would listen to his doubts and make everything better when nothing was. He was silent, but his face alternated between warm and cold, tears spilling and then freezing. For so long, he had meticulously kept his mind as blank as possible, yet now he could think of nothing but Dean’s smile, his shouts, his acknowledgement— if only Dean would call one more time, he would answer this time—

The alley cat came back, limping painfully, placing a dead mouse at his feet. He looked at her, and she cocked her head, staring back, as if wondering why he didn’t accept it immediately.

“I give you food. Are you returning the favor?” Castiel asked the cat, but she only nudged the mouse forward, batting at it with her paw. He had seen her try to capture mice before; she had difficulty running, and he knew this must have been a rare catch. It was the first gift he’d ever received.

“Thank you,” he murmured, hesitantly reaching out to touch her head. She allowed it briefly, and although she inched away after only a few seconds, it was better than his previous attempt when she had clawed him. She slipped away down the alley, towards her nest. 

Castiel sat there for a while longer, with only the Thai takeout box for company, a dead mouse at his feet. He closed his eyes and breathed. 

The following morning, he prayed with renewed fervor, leading to a loss of energy so complete it didn’t register any more. Whereas before he had felt his efforts meaningless, he now slept even less to allow for more time on the pews. The verger thought him particularly devout, and the man had eventually spoken to him, quietly volunteering Castiel the couch at his home. He politely refused, thinking he imposed enough by sleeping in the corner of the chapel. Dozing in the church surely violated one of the human’s social rules or laws, so he already thought the verger generous for overlooking his encumbrance. 

He remained until spring. He should not have stayed so long, he knew, but the angels had yet to find him. After lingering in the area for months, he’d developed a habit of thinking that just a few more days would not make a difference, and so he never left. He ate Thai, he prayed, and he fed the cat. He could no longer speak to animals in the literal way, but he found that he still had a talent for inferring what she felt: he watched the manner with which she held herself, her raised tail and her twitching ears, and he watched how she hunted. She spoke through action, not words, and Castiel thought her perfect.

The days were becoming warmer, and the cat healthier. She brought him the occasional mouse, and he couldn’t see her ribs any more, but as she became stronger, he grew weaker. It wasn’t lack of food, for he had collected several payments at the Bangkok Cafe, but he experienced an unrelenting fatigue. Although he forced himself to continue his morning prayers, he lost his determination, knowing it was habit, not motivation, that kept him going. That alone probably wouldn’t have been enough, if he was honest with himself, when after his prayers he felt drained to the point of collapse. Only the knowledge that the alley cat would be unable to feed herself until winter passed spurred him on.

Other cats fought her now and then, for her territory, thinking her weak because of her lame leg. At first she would not let Castiel tend to her, but slowly, she allowed him to bandage and disinfect her injuries. She still lashed out at him sometimes, but he endured the shallow scratches on his hands and arms, for the peace of mind of knowing that she was well. She trusted him and did not expect him to leave, and while he’d failed others who had believed the same, he did not want to disappoint this one creature, just this once. It would not make up for past errors, but he desperately wanted even a single success.

“I’m not good luck,” he told her once, while he wiped away blood from her ear with a clean napkin. “But maybe this time I’ll be good enough for you.”

He spoke to her often, more than with any of his coworkers or fellow church members. The other humans recognized him now, which was dangerous, but he evaded anything more than a smile or greeting. To the alley cat, however, he gave the undivided truth, and he thought her a wise consult. He had lost all of his angelic gifts, but just the slightest remnant of his language remained. Maybe it counted more as knowledge than ability, and while he couldn’t reclaim his understanding completely, parts of it gradually came back.

With practice, he told her stories in Enochian, of her Roman ancestors, of Muhammad’s favored cat. The communication was imperfect, but she seemed entertained enough; she had a wicked sense of humor, her tail twitching in amusement whenever he listed cultures that linked her with gods: the Egyptians, the Japanese, the Norse. He laughed quietly whenever she preened at that; she would look down her nose and he suspected she meant that she needn’t be told. She was well aware of her divinity.

Dean had never mentioned having pets, but Castiel thought he would have liked her. She’d have taken to Dean much more quickly than she had to him. He struggled with looking after her, sometimes, although he’d learned what bandages were best to buy, and which foods she liked the most. Dean would have been better at it. 

“He always watched over Sam, but he would have liked that you’re easier to please,” Castiel murmured, carefully combing her hair with a brush that he had bought on impulse. “And besides, Dean would have been glad to have someone else who dislikes salad as much as he does.”

The cat always purred her agreement. As long as he kept spoiling her, she didn’t care if he confided in her his entire millennia of wants and regrets. She would act as a confidant he’d never known aside from his fleeting bond with Dean. To her, it didn’t matter who ruled Heaven or Hell, because she knew that Castiel at least had the sense to worship the only deity who mattered: herself.

She let him pet her now, and he took to rubbing her neck as he closed his eyes and dozed against the cafe’s alley wall. He no longer had the strength to keep himself upright on his own. The surface was cement and unforgiving, the backstreet reeked of rotten food and pollution, yet he experienced a surreal sort of peace he’d lacked for years.

Castiel delayed the end to stay with the cat a while longer. It was almost time, and as the days ticked down, he prayed less. A week left, maybe a little more if he kept stretching it out. He spoke with the caretaker of the church, the kind old man who had let him sleep in the church for the entire winter. He asked if he was interested in a cat.

As he finalized his proposal, he discovered with wistful relief that the man would take far better care of the alley cat than he had—the verger spoke of animal doctors, vets, and frivolities such as toys—although a selfish, human part of him felt petulant, like he’d lost his purpose. It was a reprehensible thought, but he ignored it, and he arranged to bring the alley cat to the church on his last night. She was reluctant to leave the alley, but he coaxed her with shrimp and months of hard-earned trust.

Her presence at the church was odd. She refused to enter, hissing and jumping out of his arms every time he tried to walk through the door, so he sat on the front steps, waiting for the priest to arrive. The air was chilled, but not so cold that it was intolerable, and he didn’t mind letting her wander while he rested outside. He leaned heavily against the door, and wondered vaguely if Dean had received his text: he’d noticed yesterday that there was a case in town, possibly a witch. It didn’t matter to the plan, but humans were dying, and he was far too weak to hunt down any monsters himself. He’d alerted Dean. 

Maybe if he hadn’t been as exhausted, he wouldn’t have so stupidly texted him the town he was in, thinking that with only a day left it didn’t matter. He’d thoughtlessly believed that Dean would not arrive within twenty-four hours, and he would have plenty of time to finish his final morning of prayer. 

Dean arrived early. Not only that, but Castiel had underestimated a hunter’s ability to track someone down. To find an angel dying in a church; it certainly had a poetic twist of irony, or perhaps tragic. Either way, he woke up with terrible dread the next day, finding Dean standing over him, looking equal parts furious and horrified. 

“What happened to you?” Dean demanded, eyes trailing over Castiel with unconcealed shock. Castiel flinched at the question, trying but failing to rise to his feet. He stumbled, but Dean reflexively reaching out to steady him, staggering awkwardly under the weight. Dean cursed violently under his breath, before seemingly deciding that he needed backup.

“Sam,” he shouted towards the road, the impala, voice strained from the effort of holding up Castiel. It echoed loudly across the empty street; it was still too early for anyone else to have arrived yet for church. Castiel would normally have woken up in another half hour. He shivered in the morning air. 

“Dean,” Castiel muttered, feeling vaguely appalled that anyone would yell in a church corridor when the sun had barely risen. Dean’s grip was painfully tight, but when he attempted to pull away the hand only tightened. 

“Sam!” Dean shouted again, and Castiel winced. 

“I’m fine, Dean, this is unnecessary-” he managed, although his voice rasped unconvincingly. He’d always spoken softly to the cat, since a murmur made it easier to ignore the way his throat ached, much like the rest of him. His muscles always felt raw, and now they felt downright exposed.

“Fine?” Dean snapped, shaking his arm roughly, rattling his teeth. The dull ache of his muscles turned sharp, and he gasped quietly. “You’re fine? Look at yourself! I’ve seen zombies that look better than you. Fuck that, I’ve seen ghosts that look better than you. We’re taking you to the hospital.”

“No,” Castiel started paying attention at that, the world entering a hazy clarity. He couldn’t leave before he prayed, but Dean’s grip on him was strong, and he realized then that Dean could take him by force, and it would make his months of work for nothing. He’d already delayed the end as much as possible, it had to be today. 

Abruptly desperate, he began struggling in Dean’s hold, trying to yank off the man’s fingers with his other hand, and what had been a support now turned into a battle of strength and will. He dug his nails into Dean’s skin, and Dean swore loudly while Castiel scrambled for an advantage, any advantage. He had to finish his prayer. It was the last one, the last sacrifice. The one thing he would do right. 

His weakened body wasn’t strong enough. On instinct he reached for the power of his angelic grace, but he was empty, even his human essence pathetically drained. Castiel despaired; Dean would succeed and then—and then—

And then the alley cat was there, hissing and scratching at Dean’s legs, using her claws and ripping into his pants. Such a tiny creature attacking a Winchester would have been ridiculous in any other circumstance, but she maintained a sort of feline grace, her attacks determined and light-footed. Dean’s grip loosened. Castiel took the opportunity, fighting to enter the church, but too late he saw Dean reaching for his gun, raising his arm, and Castiel shouted “don’t!” just before Dean struck out, hitting the cat with the gun’s cold surface. She let out a pained mewl, and she was about to attack again, but collapsed on the steps. 

“What the hell,” Dean was cursing. “It just attacked me out of nowhere. If this is another cat goddess, then fuck if I haven’t found something I hate more than witches—Cas?”

Castiel had stopped fighting him. Dean shook him lightly, but Castiel didn’t look at him, a wave of helplessness flooding him. He felt a grief too intense to cry, looking at the alley cat’s limp form, and Dean spoke, no longer ranting, instead questioning him worriedly. It sounded distant and indistinguishable, and Castiel changed his mind: no grief was so deep that he could not cry, because a moment later Dean’s clinical concern drove him over the edge, breaking whatever defenses had delayed his tears before. He’d lost two friends in such short a time.

“Cas?” Dean repeated, uneasy at his obvious distress. Castiel pried away from Dean’s grip, weakly this time, not fighting, and Dean let him go. With all the care he could muster, he forced his frail arms to lift the alley cat, cradling her and wiping away a spot of blood. He stared at his fingers, red dripping from their tips, trembling unsteadily. 

“Was it yours?” Dean asked, tense. “I didn’t know. I didn’t hit it that hard, I was just trying to drive it away—”

“Whether you drove her away or killed her,” Castiel said. “Did you not see that both would lead to the same end?” 

Sacrificed for someone else, or abandoned and awaiting death. Castiel, at least, knew which he preferred. Proceeding slowly into the church with the cat, he saw Dean frown, but follow him. Perhaps he assumed that after months of fading away, it wouldn’t matter if Castiel delayed the hospital trip a while longer. More likely it was guilt for the cat.

Castiel reached the steps beneath the pulpit. Turning to Dean, he placed the cat gently in the righteous man’s arms, because he knew that Dean already regretted striking her. Her fate was in better hands, now.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel murmured to her. “I failed you too, in the end.”

And so he kneeled before the altar, ignoring Dean’s confused demands, lowering his head to pray. Truthfully his sacrifice was not so much religious as a desperation to atone, but either would suffice for the ritual. He thought of Dean, and how maybe he will have earned the smallest bit of forgiveness, after this. 

Dean shouted his name when he collapsed on the steps. His final prayer had been short, a merciful end to his months of preparation: sunlight filtered through the glass and the world glowed red, distracting Castiel from his last rasping breath, although Dean’s shouts still echoed across the empty church.

Castiel stared up at the righteous man from the altar’s floor, and then he saw nothing else.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have said I’d have this chapter posted in two weeks. I may or may not have meant two years.
> 
> …Oh GOD I’M SO SORRY. Thank you so much for the reviews, and I am so so so sorry about my poor repayment.

He woke up in the back seat of the impala, in excruciating pain. Castiel groaned; he’d expected the spell to take time, but he’d wished to suffer alone, if at all. The car jolted, and someone brushed the sweat from his brow, muttering worriedly when he flinched. As the world came into focus, he slit his eyes open to see Dean above him, holding him still so that he almost cradled Castiel’s head in his lap.

“He just collapsed, I don’t know why,” Dean was saying, his voice harsh and his fingers tight on his cell phone. Castiel closed his eyes before the man saw that he’d awakened. “No, Sam’s driving. But I iced the witch, this is something else—” Dean paused to listen to whoever was on the other end of the call, and when he spoke again, he sounded even angrier. “You didn’t see him, he _knew_ what was going to happen, the bastard _—_ ” Another pause. “I don’t care _how_ many books you have to go through—”

Castiel faded out again somewhere in the middle of the conversation, but he thought they reached the bunker quickly; after all, Kansas was just a state over. He had been truly thoughtless, to message Dean with such a strong possibility of the Winchesters being only a night’s drive away. Although to be fair, Sam drove at speeds even Dean wouldn’t have normally dared.

His recollections of the car ride were only flickers of pain, green eyes, panicked voices, and gentle hands, but at some point he woke up in a soft bed and pale light. He recognized Dean’s room, and blinked in confusion when he saw someone staring down at him: the prophet. Kevin watched him warily, closing the book in his lap and leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

“Do you want me to call Dean?” Kevin asked after a beat, gazing at him doubtfully. He had dark circles under his eyes and several day’s stubble, but Castiel’s eyes lingered more on the book in his hands, a compilation of sacrificial rituals which involved the user’s death. Castiel wasn’t surprised that they had deduced that much; the Winchesters had certainly hunted long enough to recognize the signs.

“You must not heal me,” Castiel spoke, his voice flat but tenuous, disregarding the question. A weak part of him did want Dean, but another part of him was already dismayed that he’d been caught in such a compromising position. Unsure of how long he would remain conscious, he cut straight to the point.

Kevin considered him, detached, studying the angel sprawled helplessly across the bed. Behind him, Castiel saw guns and knives mounted on the wall, strictly organized but somehow personal, as only Dean’s room could be. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply. The bed felt too soft compared to the sharp pain in his ribs.

“I don’t like you, but I don’t really want you dead,” Kevin said eventually. “Besides, Dean angsting for the rest of my probably-short existence isn’t on my bucket list.”

“Your life wouldn’t be in danger if you weren’t connected to Heaven,” said Castiel, and surprised himself with the crushing grief he felt as he said it. Before he’d fallen, he had never held much sympathy for those dragged into this life as God’s chosen. He had thought it an honor and an inescapable duty, and even later, when he knew the weight of humanity’s free will first hand, he’d felt little more than fleeting pity for the boy.

Now he looked at the consequences of his disregard, a young man in front of him staring back with hopeless eyes.

“You’re the one who told me I was a prophet of the Lord, always and forever,” Kevin said flatly, a dull echo of an old and desperate command. “Until I cease to exist.”

“You mean that my death won’t help you,” Castiel said. “But are you still a prophet if I cut your connection to God’s messengers?”

“The angels,” Kevin breathed, eyes going wide. It made the shadows under his eyes even more prominent. “You found a way to send them back and close the gates.”

“Yes,” he said. “God made me a pawn, and Heaven used me. Used you, as well.”

After a moment Kevin finished, “But you can end it all.”

“Dying for freedom is not a new concept,” Castiel agreed, speaking the words he knew would linger in Kevin’s mind, let him see logic where the Winchesters might not. He closed his eyes once more. “Help me convince them not to heal me. Or delay them, if necessary.” They would not find a specific reversal to the spell in their books, he knew, but he also knew better than to underestimate their improvisational skills.

They fell silent together, and in the stillness he could hear Dean and Sam out in the hallway, arguing quietly. He didn’t sleep, but time passed disjointedly, his memory filled with hazy images and gaps that might or might not have been dreams. He couldn’t recall when the argument ended, but he knew Kevin sat with him for a while, not leaving until much later. Raised voices soon followed Kevin’s departure, escalating as footsteps approached his door, angry and familiar.

Selfishly, he was pleased at the chance to see Dean again, even if his last memory would be the man’s fury. Castiel had enticed Kevin by declaring his death a liberation, but in reality he thought it more of a penance. He had saved Dean from his own mistake. That would comfort him in his last hours, knowing Dean was better off, as well as the rest of humanity.

Given the opportunity, he also wanted to ask for the alley cat: he regretted that he would leave her behind in death. He hadn’t seen if she had truly survived the hit, but he didn’t allow himself to consider the alternative; her condition might have worsened, even if she had breathed when he last saw her. His eyes stung. He felt glad, suddenly, that he and Dean had gone their separate ways _—_ Dean would not feel the same pain when Castiel passed on. No gratitude or intense guilt, just one more dead man who had dabbled in powers he shouldn’t have.

He slept a while despite his heartache. Drifting off, he wondered vaguely if he would wake again, and when he did, he felt simultaneously relieved and disappointed. For the third time since his arrival, he heard shouts in the hallway.

“If you knew what he was doing, then why the hell didn’t you tell us earlier? You spoke to him hours ago,” Dean was yelling, and Castiel heard an indistinct reply. Kevin had told them, then, but it shouldn’t matter. More exhausted than pained, he knew his death was not far off.

“Sorry isn’t going to heal him,” Dean snapped, cutting off Kevin’s reply, and Castiel blinked when Dean stormed into the room. The other man drew up short when he saw Castiel’s open eyes, and without glancing behind him, he closed the door in Kevin’s face, who lingered just outside the room.

“Dean,” Castiel said, and the name came out as a rasp, and he tasted blood in his mouth. He swallowed. “Where’s Sam?” he asked, vaguely hoping for a buffer. Dean unfroze, his expression of surprise morphing into something harder, more unforgiving.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Dean demanded, sharp. No Sam, then. “You’re risking your life on some half-assed, self-sacrificing hoodoo magic that _might_ lock up the angels? Oh, right, because that worked so well the first time, and the second and third. Remind me again how that ended with Metatron, I lost track of your shit exploding in our faces some time after your deal with Crowley—”

“Dean,” Kevin interrupted from the doorway, loudly, as if he’d already tried once before. Castiel hadn’t noticed; he hadn’t even seen Kevin reopen the door. He experienced a wave of vertigo as he attempted to lift his head, and opted instead to lie completely limp. If he held still, the pain and emotions faded into a faraway buzz, and beneath the fatigue he watched Dean with trepidation: Dean threatened to shatter his pleasant detachment, human sentiment betraying him in his final hours. He wanted peace at the end, but Dean would allow him none.

“I thought I told you to go look at those goddamned books,” Dean barked impatiently. “Or can’t you work on a deadline without your own future on the line?”

His hands twitched at his sides, as if itching to punch someone in the face, deserving or not. The situation felt surreal, an ugly intrusion that was difficult to focus on and impossible not to. If Castiel had been more aware, perhaps he would have pointed out that holy texts, by definition, could hardly be damned by God.

“Shut up,” Kevin snapped back, standing rigidly in the corridor, gripping the door frame with white knuckles. “We’ve been searching nonstop for some way to close the gates to Heaven—or at least I have, since you can’t focus on research even _with_ a deadline—and we’ve got nothing. He’s an _angel_. Did it occur to you that he might be our best chance?”

“He’s suicidal,” Dean all but shouted. “And he’s _human_ now.”

Now Castiel felt a spark of anger. If he still had his grace, or any strength left at all, he would have grabbed Dean by the collar and shaken him. Ironic that he missed his powers the most when in the presence of the man he’d given them up for. For whom he would give them up again.

“He’s giving up his life to save the world,” Kevin said coldly. “Weren’t you the one who wanted to do the trials to close the gates of Hell? And don’t tell me that was different because we knew for sure that it would work. The tablet said we had to cure a _demon._ And that’s if I translated it correctly, when I was running on drugs and no sleep. But maybe you’re high-minded enough to think that Dean Winchester is the only suitable sacrifice to save the world.”

Oh, that had probably stung. Castiel wavered, torn between agreeing or defending against the assumption, or perhaps settling back into his detached delirium. Kevin spoke a truth he likely didn’t fully realize himself: yes, Dean did think himself the only suitable sacrifice, but not for hubris. Rather, Dean valued himself so little that he would throw away his life on an improbable chance.

Dean was worth more, but Castiel knew better than to try and convince him of such, and so instead he let out a tired breath. Wincing at the twinge in his lungs, the resulting coughing fit caught him off guard, and he rolled onto his side so he faced away from Dean. Tasting a mouthful of blood, he managed to lift his head a little so as not to choke, trying to swallow so no one would see: but his lips felt numb and cracked, and red splattered his pillow despite his efforts.

His shoulder was yanked sideways so that he laid on his back again, and Dean stared down at him in horror. “Aspirin?” Castiel managed, his voice unhealthy and scratched. He remembered looking at Dean another night, another time, when he was handed the medication and told to down the whole bottle. He’d needed that much to dull a small pain for an angel, and now he needed that much for the great pain of a human.

Kevin rifled through his pockets, coming up with a half-empty bottle, presumably from the latest crisis, all-nighter, and resulting headache. Castiel guiltily accepted the smattering of pills Kevin offered, recognizing himself as the latest crisis. “I don’t think we have to worry about you O.D.ing, at this point,” the boy said. “I think your lungs are failing. If we took you to a hospital, they might—”

“No,” he said, swallowing the pills dry. His body gave a small spasm; he ignored it.

“Cas,” Dean said, face contorted in an uncomfortable expression. His gaze flickered to Kevin, and Castiel braced himself. It looked like they were going to talk about _feelings_ , as per the Winchester ritual when someone neared death. Bring out the dirty laundry, inhale, and try to prevent tears from squeezing out at the built up stench. “Look, this isn’t on you. We’ve all messed up. We’ll find some other way to fix this, together, if you would just—”

“Talk to you?” Castiel finished for him. He coughed again. “I’ve lied to you in the past. You can’t trust me, Dean. Not alive.” He clenched his thin fingers. “It’s too late to save me, anyway.”

Kevin cleared his throat at that. They both looked up at him with narrowed eyes, Castiel’s in warning and Dean’s with suspicious hope. Kevin focused on Dean. “Well, I was trying to tell you before you slammed the door in my face, but...I told Sam earlier, and we think we’ve found something to heal him. He’s sacrificing his human soul, to somehow counteract the grace that Metatron tricked him into giving. We don’t know the specifics, but we found this spell—”

And just like that, Castiel snapped back to awareness; pain, betrayal, guilt, and panic overwhelmed him. Clenching his teeth, he held back a whimper, even as he rapidly considered how to salvage the situation. Perhaps the spell would prove useless, as he suspected, but he refused to take any risks so close to his own ritual’s completion.

“I don’t care _why_ something works, just tell me how we do it and we’ll do it,” Dean said impatiently, a newfound determination settling over his expression. It would be a battle of wills, it seemed, but Castiel could always match Dean in that respect.

“No, you won’t,” Castiel said as forcefully as he could manage, eying Kevin with whatever was left of his heavenly wrath. Kevin had told Sam; fine, the other man might have accepted Castiel’s need to atone, but Dean would never allow it so easily.

“And why the fuck not—”

“Because you _matter_ , and I _don’t,_ ” Castiel hissed, throat rattling in protest. Dean flinched back. “You have Sam, you have friends, you have a _purpose_. Without my grace I’m useless, and you want to prevent me from fixing the only thing that I can. I’m not your responsibility, Dean. This time I’ll be accountable for my own actions and their consequences.” He glared at Kevin, now. “I know angelic lore. If you and Sam attempt whatever you’ve found, I’ll accelerate the effects of my current state.”

Dean paled, but Kevin nodded grimly, as if accepting a challenge. “If you change your mind, you should know that its chances of success diminish as you get closer to dying.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean cross his arms, a weak shield at Kevin’s clinical delivery of information. Castiel knew that he wouldn’t change his mind, but morbidly curious how much time he had left, he asked, “How much longer?”

“It’s hard to say, but one or two hours, maybe. If you want us to try and save you, don’t wait for more than one,” Kevin said. He didn’t seem intent to force healing on him, but now Dean would try to convince him to change his mind rather than discuss anything else. Castiel glared at the boy, as did Dean, twin expressions of fury for opposite reasons.

Kevin hesitated in the doorway. “I’ll get Sam. You know, to say goodbye,” he muttered, ducking out quickly as his footsteps reverberated through the corridor.

Damage done, Castiel sighed. “I’m surprised you let him leave,” he said, grating, his sore throat making the words harsher than he intended. Or weaker, he wasn’t sure.

“I’m not going to tell him to fix you when you’ll just kill yourself faster if we try,” Dean said bitterly. “Is this really how you want to go? Everything we’ve been through, and you just give up?”

Castiel gave a short laugh, gasping as his lungs protested. He’d been willing to give up eternity for Dean, and truly, giving up the few extra decades he might have survived as a human was nothing in comparison. Especially when the only one he had to share it with was an alley cat who had little need for him anymore.

“After all that I’ve done,” Castiel murmured. “Rather than giving up, I would have thought you’d call it justice.”

A resounding crash startled him out of his musings, and he stared at the broken lamp on the floor, puzzled. Somehow it was still plugged in, and the light spluttered weakly, fighting to burn. Turning his head slowly, he refocused on Dean, who looked furious.

“You’re a coward,” he snapped, and Castiel watched a trickle of blood drip from Dean’s middle finger. He’d cut himself on the glass bulb. “You think you’re some kind of martyr, but the truth is, you’re just leaving behind people you should be helping.”

“Helping them how?” Castiel said hoarsely, riled up despite himself. “By living off of their charity, or by serving them fast food? By unleashing the leviathan upon them, or by destroying those people myself? At least if I close Heaven’s gates, I save them from the angels. I protect them from the ones after power, and the ones that rebel...I prevent another mistake. I save you from myself.”

Dean appeared stricken at that, blood and anger draining from his face, turning him pale and tight-lipped. Even if Castiel wanted to end on good terms with him, it seemed nothing could reestablish their friendship. If he survived long enough for the anger to fade, he would surely mourn that later, but now he only felt months of pent up resentment.

“You could have told me,” he started, but Castiel interrupted tiredly.

“And what did you expect, Dean?” he asked. “A hammer? I’ve told you I’m not. I’m no hunter, I’m no warrior of Heaven anymore, and my only contacts are you and Sam. When you kicked me out, _what did you expect?_ ”

Dean made a noise as if a demon had its fingers clutched around his throat, and he turned his face away. Castiel watched, both wretchedly satisfied and defeated. He had begrudged Dean’s neglect, yet known he’d deserved it, well aware that he was selfish to want more but unable to prevent his traitorous desire. Now, weak and broken, he lashed out, unfair and hateful, even as he knew that it was not Dean he hated, but himself.

“Hey,” Sam cleared his throat from the door, open just a crack. His long hair looked flat, in need of a shower. Likely he had been searching relentlessly for a way to save Castiel, running on caffeine and determination alone. “Kevin said you were up for visitors. Can I come in?”

Castiel nodded, ignoring the throbbing of in his throat, taking shallow breaths. He allowed a wave of sickness to rush over him, washing away his anger in a distracting bout of nausea. Avoiding Dean’s gaze, he met Sam’s: compassionate and understanding, tired but forgiving. Exactly what he’d wanted to see in Dean’s, greedily and unrealistically, and when he hadn’t, he’d taken out his anger on the very man who he had wanted to forgive him. Even worse, he knew that Dean would likely blame himself in the process. Another mistake he could not atone for, perhaps the last one he would make.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel said quietly.

“Hi, Cas,” Sam replied just as softly, taking the chair where Kevin had been reading earlier. He pulled it closer to the bed than Kevin had, his feet crunching on the broken glass of the lamp. Sam eyed the mess warily, but didn’t ask. The open bulb flickered.

“Kevin says you don’t want to cut the ritual short,” Sam said, when it became apparent that Castiel wasn’t going to answer. He appreciated Sam’s concern, but it was hardly his only reason for visiting: the man held something in his hands, and Castiel eyed it distrustfully, his fingers tangling in the sweaty sheets.

Following his gaze, Sam lifted up the thermos bottle, and unscrewed the cap. Castiel recognized the odor of the plants calendula and asarum, and pieced together the rest easily. Flinching away, he clenched his mouth shut tightly, aware that the remedy would cure him and likewise, doom the rest of humanity. Sam was as clever as always. Rather than focusing on a reversal for the specific ritual—there wasn’t one—he’d worked around the problem by finding a way to sooth his battered soul. His soul would not suffice for the ritual as long as it was strong enough to resist, and by reinforcing its will, Castiel would be saved.

“Cas,” Sam said gently, holding out the bottle. “Enough. We know you’re sorry, but you were trying to do what’s right. We’ll find another way out of this. The three of us stopped the apocalypse, we can save the world from a couple of angels again.”

“If you would recall,” Castiel answered, choosing his next words carefully. He didn’t want to say this, especially with his own lingering guilt of bringing back Sam without a soul, but he must. “We never would have saved anything, if you hadn’t thrown yourself into the cage with Lucifer. To make up for your mistake, you had to sacrifice yourself.”

Sam looked at him, heartbroken but understanding. Wordlessly, he placed the cap back on the thermos, bowing his head.

“Sam!” Dean protested angrily.

“Some things are worth the sacrifice,” Sam replied sharply, his fingers white where they grasped the bottle. “You’ve done it, I’ve done it. We should trust Cas. He deserves our faith more than anybody.”

Dean was standing by the bed, aghast, somewhere between enraged and anguished. “Cas!” he said, seemingly at a loss of anything else to say. It sounded so genuinely distressed that Castiel almost broke then and there and begged to live, if only Dean would forgive him, if only he would smile at him—if only he would—

But Dean wouldn’t; he couldn’t. Castiel was beyond redemption. At least death would provide some small measure of atonement. Dragging his eyes away from Sam, a movement by the door caught his eye, a light padding of feet, so soft he thought he might have imagined it. Kevin hesitated in the door, no sign of the cat by his feet. An illusion, then, in death. Perhaps he would meet her soon. Castiel closed his eyes.

“Sam,” Dean said, desperate now, but his brother must have shaken his head because a moment later Dean shouted out in frustration. His voice was closer now, and the bed dipped down a little, jostling Castiel uncomfortably. Dean was a warm presence beside him. “Cas, come on. Don’t do this to me. You can’t leave, not again, I didn’t—I would have—”

Castiel tasted blood on his lips, but he couldn’t seem to find his voice. He felt so very cold. He wanted to ask Dean to put a hand on his shoulder, to hold his hand. Dean did neither, but a drop of warmth splashed on his frozen fingers anyway: a tear. Clenching his eyes shut ever more tightly and listening to his own labored breathing, he wondered if this final guilt was what would kill him in the end: he’d made Dean Winchester cry.

The bed gave another dip, and this time fur brushed across his arm, and an imperious mew demanded that he open his eyes.

He managed to, barely, and with exhausting effort, lifted a hand to place on her back.

“She likes beef,” he blurted, the words scraping out pitifully. “And fish sauce. I know I don’t deserve any favors, Dean, but I—”

“You can stop right there,” Dean snapped, and Castiel could feel him tense beside him. “You should take care of her yourself.”

He knew that, of course. Another failure. “I am sorry, Dean.”

It seemed he always was. For losing faith, for hurting Sam, for choosing wrong, time and time again.

In the background, he heard Kevin whisper urgently to Sam; the boy’s estimate of his remaining hour had been generous, it seemed. His condition had taken a turn for the worse, and Castiel’s breath grew ragged, his fingers twisting in the alley cat’s fur and tugging just a little bit too hard. She gave a distressed mewl.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her, even as his grip loosened. “Dean, please believe me—”

His eyes had slipped shut without him realizing. A hand gripped his forearm as he gasped, calloused and strong, and he thought it fitting. He’d raised Dean from perdition, a man who’d lost his way, corrupted and believing that no one would save him.

Castiel didn’t deserve Dean’s forgiveness, yet the man sat with him for a long time, until after the pain had faded and all that remained was the warm grasp on his arm.

Until he couldn’t feel its warmth, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be a short epilogue of sorts. As always, I hope to hear from you! Thanks for reading. :)

**Author's Note:**

> There will be one more chapter of approximately the same length. It should be up within two weeks! (that's my goal)
> 
> Comments/reviews are a fanfic writer's only reward...so they're very much appreciated! I hope to hear from you. :)


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